Page 40 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)
Twenty-Seven
Rosomon
O n the second day we begin with a two-hour run before our first meal—twice as long as yesterday. Two of the slowest men are killed by dragon fire, and after we break our fasts, we spend the next hours sword training with Saxon. He pays me no attention.
Twice, I think I catch him looking my way, but his gaze quickly falls elsewhere.
No one gets killed during sword training—not even Samyull who, like me, is better than his small frame might suggest—but two men are badly injured and choose to leave camp.
After we lay down our swords, I rush to the classroom and take a seat in the front row, prepared for our first classroom session with Master Roule.
I’m grateful that we finally have a session that doesn’t involve physical training.
My body is aching, and I feel every bone as it strikes the hard chair beneath me.
I keep a seat open for Samyull, but he hasn’t appeared when the class is almost full, so I don’t object when Henri drops onto it.
This finely decorated classroom is on the second level of the main building, and while the seats are hard, the room itself is awe inducing. I’m still absorbing how they call this place a camp. It rivals the opulence of my father’s castle.
The classroom’s walls and ceilings are covered in polished panels of dark walnut wood, enhanced by intricate carvings on the crown moldings and the trim dividing each panel.
At intervals along the walls, fine tapestries in bright colors depict dragons in flight, or in battle, or both.
And although there are no windows in this room, it’s very well lit.
More of the mysterious lights Elly called gas lamps surround the room, and more hang down from above us.
Looking at the overhead lights leaves me dizzy. I may still be suffering from the rocks that struck my head yesterday. Shifting my body, I wince at the pain. Everything smarts as if every bone in my body is smashed.
At least all this new pain has overridden the effects of Saxon’s rough use of my body. I throb as the heat of want mixes into my pain. To quash my body’s inexplicable desire, I draw on my hatred of Saxon.
How can I hate and want that man at the same time?
Speaking of Saxon, the demon personified enters the room, along with Treacher and Roule. The room quiets as the three masters step onto the raised platform at the front. Roule takes the podium, and Treacher and Saxon stand with their legs wide and hands clasped behind their backs.
Both Treacher and Saxon are undeniably impressive male specimens, oozing strength and power.
Every one of their muscles bulges prominently under their riding uniforms. But in spite of my efforts, my gaze keeps drifting back to Saxon.
He, on the other hand, maintains his gaze above me, focused on the back of the room.
Everyone is seated and quiet, and Roule grips the wooden sides of the podium, as if he plans to tear it apart.
Perhaps he could. Roule isn’t as large as his fellow dragon masters, and has a kinder face, but he’s clearly strong.
Based on the silver streaks in his bushy umber hair, and the lines etched in his face, Roule has at least ten years more than the other two masters.
He could have close to fifty years, I’d guess.
“Candidate recruits,” Roule says. “Welcome to my classroom.” His voice is gruff, as if he drank rocks for his breakfast, and I’m grateful I selected a seat in the front. I don’t want to miss a word of his lessons.
“In this room,” Roule continues, “you will learn the technical details of bonding with dragons. You’ll learn their history and you’ll also learn more about the Darkness.”
Murmurs float through the room.
“It takes more than strength and skill to slay demons,” Roule continues. “To hold back the Darkness, you also require knowledge .”
He recounts information about the history of the Seven Kingdoms I largely already know, but I lean forward on my chair, eager to hear every word, especially when the topic turns to demons.
“More than six hundred years ago,” Master Roule says, “the Old World was invaded by demons, expelled from another realm. In the centuries that followed, humans suffered greatly under the torment of these demons and other creatures of Darkness. But Othrix created the veil to hold back that Darkness, and He granted us dragons, so that we might defend and repair the veil.” He scans the room. “Any questions so far?”
I shoot up my hand.
“You’ll stand to ask questions,” Roule says. “And to begin, state your name and home kingdom.”
My legs scream in pain as I rise, but I spread them into a wide stance, mimicking the way Saxon and Treacher are standing.
“I am Rosshall, of Achotia.” I remember to deepen my voice. “What causes the tears in the veil?” I quickly retake my seat.
“Evil.” Roule leans onto the podium. “Evil magic borne of the Darkness. Othrix’s powers are strong.
He is full of Light, but even our god’s powers have limits.
After so many years, the veil is wearing thin and can no longer hold back every creature of Darkness.
The demons penetrating our world are legion and attack our veil with a fury.
Not even the power of Othrix can withstand this constant barrage.
” Roule thumps his podium a few times during this answer, and it’s obvious it’s one he’s given before.
Chair legs scrape as someone behind me rises. “Padrich of Phirene,” he says. “How do we riders use our dragons to repair the veil?”
“First, young man—” Roule clears his throat “—I’ll remind you that you are not yet a rider.” He frowns. “But I admire your optimism.”
Muffled chuckles flow through the classroom.
“Dragon fire carries the power of Othrix,” Roule replies. “But it’s not for us to understand a dragon’s powers, nor that of Othrix. A rider’s job is to guide these beasts, to allow them to carry out their holy purpose.”
“How do riders guide their dragons?” Padrich asks.
“Riders draw on the Light, on the goodness inherent in mankind. Then they use the sacred bond struck between rider and dragon to direct the beasts’ fire.”
Roule’s answer raises more questions than answers for me, but I don’t want to call more attention by asking another so soon.
“Samyull of Achotia.” Relief floods me that my friend is still here.
“How does one bond with a dragon? And why can’t they repair the veil on their own?”
Derisive chuckles arise from the back of the room.
“This is a very good question.” Roule nods. “Without a rider, a dragon cannot fly and most are blind and deaf. Without riders, dragons only see shapes and perhaps differentiations in light levels. We can’t be certain. But lacking a proper rider bond, dragons cannot rise off the ground.”
“Egon of Verax.” I cringe at his voice. “How soon do I get to bond with my dragon?”
Saxon steps forward. “I admire your eagerness, Egon. But you have much to learn and many skills to develop before making an attempt to mount.”
“But I’m the strongest recruit,” Egon says. “The strongest by far. I’ve bested my compeers in every trial. I’m ready.”
No one contradicts Egon’s statement, and anger boils inside me. Several times I’ve done better than Egon. But not even Treacher nor Saxon contradicts the bully’s false claim.
Roule leans onto the podium. “No candidate will attempt a mounting, until properly prepared. Doing so would lead to grave injury?—”
“Unless you’re Rosshall.” Tynan’s voice rises from the back of the room. “That runt regularly takes it up the bum.”
Saxon shifts on the stage, and my cheeks burn with anger as chuckles wash through the crowd. I can’t fathom why Tynan chose this moment to taunt me. To threaten both me and Saxon with the knowledge he believes that he has. Especially since being drilled has nothing to do with riding dragons.
At least Tynan only embarrassed me—thank Othrix—and didn’t mention Saxon. I might hate Saxon—hate what he did to me and how he’s now treating me—but he doesn’t deserve to lose his position as dragon master.
Roule frowns. “That’s enough, Tynan.”
Treacher steps forward. “Your preparations for dragon mounting will be accelerated.” His gruff expression matches his tone.
Roule looks surprised and Saxon shakes his head, as if he disagrees.
“Demon attacks on the Light have increased,” Treacher continues sternly. “Yesterday, we lost two riders, and three senior candidates.”
The room falls silent.
“Given our losses and the frequency of attacks,” he continues, “we must urgently train new riders. Strong riders. Even if the acceleration of your training means more of you will die.” He scans the room with a clear challenge in his eyes. “This afternoon, you will run the gauntlet.”
Hoots rise from the senior candidates at the back of the classroom, and Saxon steps forward, shaking his head.
“Too soon,” he whispers to Treacher, so softly I have to read his lips. His eyes flick toward me, but then quickly away.
“We must thin this herd,” Treacher says, loudly enough that the whole room can hear. “Why waste our time on weak candidates?”
“That’s enough for today.” Roule scowls, clearly annoyed that the other two interrupted his lesson, and are arguing in front of us.
I didn’t think Treacher could be more intimidating. I was wrong. He’s clearly excited at the prospect of more of us dying.